Scars from the Past
by TheConsultingSociopath
Summary: John has been depressed from months, and makes a huge decision, and life doesn't always have happy endings. (Possible Trigger Warning)
1. Chapter 1

The tear-stained paper was filled with the chicken scratch that was John's writing. He wiped his eyes occasionally, sniffing slighty, as he finished the note that he had started so long ago. He was careful to be quiet, knowing that if Sherlock woke up and saw him in this state, he would be forced to stop, and to sleep. He wrote the last line of the note, and gasped, putting his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob that was about to escape his lips. He folded the note carefully, never intending to give it to Sherlock. He wouldn't care anyway; why should he? He was always more important than John, always mattered more. John stood up from where he sat, and put the folded note in his pocket, and headed down quietly to his room. He tip-toed past Sherlock's room, hoping that the floorboards wouldn't creak, and that he could safely get by. His opened the door to his room, and began to get his things together. He made his bed, carefully folding the sheets under the pillows, making sure everything was perfect. However, he left one thing that he had hoped Sherlock would keep; his dog-tags. He could only hope though. He would never know what Sherlock would do with them. He settled the dog-tags against his pillow before creeping over to his bathroom.

John had been especially depressed for months now. It didn't matter that Sherlock was back, he still couldn't really believe it, on some level. He was waiting for him to walk away. The depression was so far burned into him that he only vaguely remembered life before it, life where he didn't hurt, didn't hate himself. Every breath was an effort, and he couldn't do it anymore. He could rattle off all the medical basis for depression- knew them by heart. Just as well as all the treatments he had tried. But the funny thing was, understanding it didn't make it hurt any less.

In the bathroom, John gathered the few things he needed; his razor and a few drugs he had found after Sherlock had jumped. He stuffed them into a bag, adding a change of clothes, though he didn't expect to need them. He _knew_ he wouldn't need them.

He looked back at his room one last time, staring at everything closely, taking everything in, every last detail and fault that he could see. The way the floor dipped slightly near the edge of his bed, the way the wind blew against the walls outside, and made a whistle sound throughout the room, and the crack near the door from where John had punched it after Sherlock jumped.

He turned his back to the room, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. He slung the bag over his shoulder, his right shoulder, and shuffled back down the hallway, stopping slightly in front of Sherlock's door.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. It's not your fault, I promise. Goodbye." He

continued down the hallway, grabbing his gun from his desk drawer, then headed down the stairwell, counting as he went down, the stairs creaking slightly under his weight.

"13, 14, 15, 16, 17..." he finished counting as he finished on the

landing. He opened the door, and was greeted by a brisk wind that chilled him to his bones. He closed the door, and looked back at 221B Baker Street for the last time. He turned away, sobs beginning to be revealed throughout him, shaking his body. He rushed away from the flat, away from Sherlock, away from the past that hurt far too much.

Sherlock knew John was awake. He wasn't exactly careful when it came to sneaking around the flat. Sherlock knew all the nooks and crannies, and where he needed to be extra careful, whereas John only thought to tiptoe.

He laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hearing John muffling about around the flat. He'd get up to investigate when John had settled down. He heard occasional sniffles from John as he puttered about, and could only assume; allergies was all he could deduce from sniffling. He couldn't see John to observe. He heard the footsteps begin to move down the hallway and he softened his breath, hoping John would believe that he was sleeping. The footsteps stopped in front of his door before continuing down the hallway towards John's room. Sherlock swiftly got out of bed, being careful at where he placed his feet. He pulled on a pair of socks that laid in a pile in a corner, and walked over to his door. He leaned against the wall, making sure his shadow couldn't be seen under the door. He held his breath as John began to walk back down the hallway, and heard him begin to whisper.

"I'm so...not your faul...bye." Sherlock could only catch bits and pieces of

what John has said, but it was enough to put together. Why was John sorry? What had he done where he felt the need to apologize? His thougths were interupted when he heard the steps creaking, and the front door of the flat open and close.

Sherlock flew out of his room, being quick to examine the flat. Everything seemed to be in place; living with Sherlock had made John quite keen of himself. Sherlock looked at the desk, and saw that some of the paper had been moved, along with a couple of the pens. The lamp on the surface was still warm; John had been writing something. He pulled out the drawers of the desk, and found that John's gun was gone.

"John..." Sherlock sighed stiffly as he rushed down the hallway, and into

John's room. He found everything neat and tidy, his bed made and perfect. John's dog-tags laid on the pillow. Sherlock picked up the tags, where they were slightly warm and sweaty. John had been holding them quite recently, and he must have been nervous and clammy. He walked into his bathroom, and found that his razor was missing from the shower. Along with the razor, Sherlock also found that some of John's pills were gone.

"John!" Sherlock yelled throughout the flat, knowing that nobody could

hear. He rounded up his coat and scarf, pulling them on quietly as he ran out the flat, hoping to be able to catch up to John before he did anything drastic.


	2. Chapter 2

John walked silently throughout the streets, his bag hanging at his side. He deliberated his options, where he should go, exactly what he should do. He looked at all the places he passed, looking for the perfect area. A quiet, peaceful place. Not a park or a tunnel; those places were too public. He turned right onto another street, and came face to face with a series of abandoned buildings. He chose one of them, and walked inside, going directly to the basement.

Sherlock rushed around the city, looking for any evidence that John may have accidentally left behind. He observed street corners, grass, benches, anything. He was becoming desperate; he had already deduced what John was planning._ Please, John, just hold out. I'm almost there. Don't do this to me. I'm sorry._ These thoughts swimmed through his mind as he turned onto another street, and found footprints in some mud on the sidewalk. Sherlock bent down to get a closer look.

"Size 10 feet, was here not long ago, maybe 10 minutes," Sherlock

muttered to himself, taking everything in. He stood up and looked around, seeing all of the abandoned buildings.

"Ahh, which one?!" Sherlock grabbed at his angrily, and began to run

into one of the buildings, beginning a new type of search.

John settled down into a dark corner in the basement of one of the abandoned buildings. He rested his bag onto his lap, and began to empty its contents. He set his gun to one side while his razor and the bottle of pills went to the other side. He rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose. _Breathe, you idiot._ He opened his eyes, and looked at all the he had brought with him, thinking about exactly what he should do. The gun would be quicker, whereas the pills would be next to painless. He looked towards the razor, and realized that was out of the question. He put it back into his bag, a picked up the gun. He emptied out the ammunition, settling both the gun and the ammo back into the bag. The pills. The ones that will leave me painless. He took the bottle up into his hands, opening the cap. He dumped the last of the pills into his palm, knowing it would be more than enough to kill him. He inhaled through he nose, put the pills in his mouth, and swallowed. He exhaled through his mouth, and settle back against the wall, waiting for the pills to slowly take him, and he couldn't wait for it all to end.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stumbled through many of the buildings, sleep weighing him down. He round corners, hoping to see the figure he was desperately searching for. _Come on, John. Where are you?_ Thoughts screamed in Sherlock's head, each one hoping to be louder than the last; each trying to be heard._ He's dead, just give up. ThErE's No UsE iN tRyInG aNyMoRe. HE DOESN'T WANT YOU ANYMORE; HE'S GIVEN UP. NOW LEAVE HIM!_ Sherlock grasped at his head, his breathing becoming heavier and heavier.

"NO! I CAN'T GIVE UP! NOT ON JOHN!" Sherlock screamed into the air, and he collapsed to the ground, sobbing into his hands. He was being broken

down, piece by piece, his thoughts not helping in the slightest. His whole body shook, and tears stained his cheeks. His thoughts were focused on John, the only person in the world he cared about, the only person he lov-.

He looked up from his hands, ruffling his hair out of his eyes, and wiped his eyes. His arms cradled his torso, and he slowly stood up, and immediately feel against the nearest wall. Sleep was slowly creeping up on him.

"Not giving up..." he whispered to himself, maybe for encouragement, or maybe to keep himself happy. He walked out of the building, looked around,

and headed into the next one to resume his feeble search.

John laid on the ground in the corner, feeling the pain of the poison rushing through his veins. His whole body felt paralyzed, not even his toes wiggled slightly. He breathed in raggedly. _Oh God, it hurts! Oh, please, make it stop. MAKE IT STOP!_ John's face grimaced in the pain. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he couldn't stop them from slipping over his eyelids, and slide down his face_. I-I should've gone with the gu-gun._ He tried to lift his arms, though everything was in slow motion, even the blinking of his eyes. He deliberately raised his hand to his face, wiping his eyes, taking in another breath. He could feel his heart beginning to slow; his breaths became more and more shallow. It shouldn't be too long now. His thoughts plagued the inside of him mind, making him relive everything he was leaving behind, everything he was escaping.

_"How did you know about the smoking?" he asked Sherlock as he sat next to him in the cab. He stared at the man next to him, a small smirk on his face. _

_Sherlock half-grinned back, and looked forward._

_"As always, you see, but do not observe," he replied to John, receiving a pestered look, though it was familiar to him by now._

_"How so?" John finally inquired, moving some hair out his eyes. Sherlock beamed at him, and removed a glass dish out from under his coat. _

_"Ashtray." He twiddled it in his hands before handing it to a delighted John, who looked it over, laughing._

John whimpered softly, sobs escaping through his numb lips. The poison that coursed through his veins felt more like fire now, and he scowled. His body was becoming cold, and he growing sleepy, which he knew was a sign of how much time he had left. 5 minutes, at the most. From inside his pocket, and took the note, and placed it next to head, the "**To Sherlock**" side facing upward. The envelope was tear stained as well as the rest of the note, and John's eyes were drooping steadily, his heartbeat slowing down to only about 20 times a minute. He body was becoming heavy and cold, and he breathed delicately. He forced the breaths out of his body, hoping to extend his time only slightly. More thoughts raced through he mind, though he tried to push them down.

_"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked the first time they had met. John stood close to the door, and Mike Stamford _

_messed with some of the test tubes dispersed around the lab._

_"What's wrong with the land line?"_

_"I prefer to text." He replied, not looking up from his microscope. Mike felt around his jacket in vain. _

_"Must be in my other coat, sorry." Sherlock sighed quietly, looking back towards his sample. John took the chance to meet this stranger, the only way he could think of. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his own mobile._

_"Here, use mine." He said casually, holding the phone out to this man, Mr. Holmes. _

_"Oh. Thank you." Mr. Holmes replied, sounding surprised. He stood up from where he sat, and gracefully made his way over to where John stood. _Oh, God, he walks with such, grace_, John remarked as Mr. Holmes strode over to him. He handed him the phone, which he immediately opened, and typed something out._

_"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John looked up the figure in front of him, stunned._

_"I'm sorry?" _

_"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

_"...Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?"_

John snapped out of his thoughts when he heard rustling upstairs, footsteps. _Who the hell could be up there?_ John thought to himself. He backed up against the wall slightly, turning away from where he entered._ 3 more minutes. Almost there. I can hold out, I know I can._ The footsteps and noise from upstairs quickened, and John coughed slightly, turning away once again. The footsteps over top of him stopped. _Crap, they heard me_. The footsteps began running, but not away; they were getting closer to him._ No, please, just leave me alone. I'm tired, just leave me be._ The footsteps were getting louder and louder until they were almost in the room John was laying in.

"John?" A deep voice came from behind him, hardly above a whisper. John opened his eyes, recognizing the voice immediately. He turned slowly,

grimacing as his body moved. He sighed and grunted as he stared at the figure that was know kneeling next to him.

"Sherlock..." John sighed as his heart was getting slower and slower. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock,

because he knew there was no refunds; what he had done was irreversible John felt a warm palm grab his hand, and hold on tightly, and his opened his blood shot eyes once more, and looked at Sherlock._ Please, let me remember this face, the eyes, the hair, the voice. Oh, please don't let me forget._

"I'm sor-sorry." John stuttered as his grip on Sherlock began to loosen, and his head nodded to the side. Cold rushed up his arm, to Sherlock's own

hand, and Sherlock pinched his eyes closed, tears appearing.

"I'm too late. No, John, come back. Please..." Sherlock whispered in denial as he continued to hold onto his friend's hand, even though it wouldn't do

anything to help the man in front of him. Sherlock moved John into his arms, hugging his tightly, and began to sob into his hair, the cries echoing throughout the building around them.


	4. Epilogue

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the basement, sobbing into his hands._ He's not gone. He can't be gone. He's John Watson; he's my John._ He repeated these phrases over and over in his head, desperately searching for that spark that he may be right, that John wasn't gone, and that he would soon stretch upwards, and be asked to be taken home. Though that one part of his brain overpowered the rest, and made him nauseous. _John, come back. Oh, god. Please._ He couldn't stand the fact that his best friend, his _only_ friend, now lay dead next to him. Another sob jerked Sherlock's body violently, and he covered his mouth with his hand in his feeble attempts to silence himself. It was only then that he realized the note, a small white envelope that lay near John's head. "**To Sherlock**" was written on the front, so there were no doubts in his mind that John had written a goodbye note. He thought back to an hour ago, when he heard John talk outside his bedroom door.

_"I'm so...not your faul...bye."_ He shook his head, as if that would erase all past memories of John as he reached over, and grabbed the note, opening

the end carefully, and read the last words of Doctor John Watson.

**Sherlock, **  
**I can't do this anymore; I can't live. I can't function properly without thinking about all the mistakes that I've made these past three years. The breakdowns in the middle of the flat, cutting my wrists at every available moment. The weight is pressing down on me, and there's no earthly way to relieve it. **  
**Please believe me when I say this is not your fault. You have absolutely no reason to blame yourself Hell, I'm not even sure whether or not you will actually read this or not; it depends on the fact that you find me, whether it be too late, or just in time. Everything hurts too much. I feel like a ghost, just wandering aimlessly, not caring what happens to me. I don't see any other way out.**

The paper was beginning to get blotchy, the ink being stained into the paper. John's tears.

**I've made me decisions, and there's nothing that I can do anymore. **  
**I'm sorry for the pain this is going to cause; I know there will pain along with this, even though I know for a fact that I am not worth your emotions. My time has been running low for awhile, for the last three years, and tonight is the night when I can finally be free of my pain.**  
**I love you. Not romantically...you're like my brother; everything I can't be.**  
**I'm sorry. It isn't your fault. It never will be.**

**All my tears for you, **  
**John**

Sherlock gaped at the letter he held in his hands, tears refusing to fall on this letter, John's last letter, one that he had taken time to write. He held it close to his chest, to his heart, and breathed in through his nose, his sobs slowly diffusing.

"I've always loved you John Watson. Always. Death won't ever change that. I loved you so much more than you could ever know."

***Final Author's Note: I am sad to say that this is the last chapter of "Scars from the Past". However, I am most definitely not done writing. I'm trying to come up with another story, but it's going to take some time. I've hoped you enjoyed this story, and I can't wait until I can continue writing for all of you.**

**~Madison***


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